VI. To Lucian of Samosata

In what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are you now
reclining; the delight of the fair, the learned, the witty, and the brave? In
that clear and tranquil climate, whose air breathes of 'violet and lily,
myrtle, and the flower of the vine,'
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the Rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not,
among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of flutes hanging on
the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds most silvery sweet, and that
Helen and fair Charmides are still of your company. Master of mirth, and Soul
the best contented of all that have seen the world's ways clearly, most clear-
sighted of all that have made tranquillity their bride, what other laughers
dwell with you, where the crystal and fragrant waters wander round the shining
palaces and the temples of amethyst?

Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian soul that dwelt
among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the bodily tabernacles of Heine and of
Lucian. But he was fallen on evil times and evil tongues; while Lucian, as
witty as he, as bitter in mockery, as happily dowered with the magic of words,
lived long and happily and honoured, imprisoned in no 'mattress-grave.'
Without Rabelais, without Voltaire, without Heine, you would find, methinks,
even the joys of your Happy Islands lacking in zest; and, unless Plato came by
your way, none of the ancients could meet you in the lists of sportive
dialogue.

There, among the vines that bear twelve times in the year, more excellent than
all the vineyards of Touraine, while the song-birds bring you flowers from
vales enchanted, and the shapes of the Blessed come and go, beautiful in
wind-woven raiment of sunset hues; there, in a land that knows not age nor
winter, midnight, nor autumn, nor noon, where the silver twilight of summer-
dawn is perennial, where youth does not wax spectre-pale and die; there, my
Lucian, you are crowned the Prince of the Paradise of Mirth.

Who would bring you, if he had the power, from the banquet where Homer sings:
Homer, who, in mockery of commentators, past and to come, German and Greek,
informed you that he was by birth a Babylonian? Yet, if you, who first wrote
Dialogues of the Dead, could hear the prayer of an epistle wafted to 'lands
indiscoverable in the unheard-of West,' you might visit once more a world so
worthy of such a mocker, so like the world you knew so well of old.

Ah, Lucian, we have need of you, of your sense and of your mockery! Here,
where faith is sick and superstition is waking afresh; where gods come rarely,
and spectres appear at five shillings an interview; where science is popular,
and philosophy cries aloud in the market-place, and clamour does